Maybe I should call him.
We were friends—though not friends with benefits—and I hadn’t talked to him in a while, so it would be okay to call. He’d know it was just cover so I could ask him about the case, but hey, friends understood that sort of thing. Right?
I got my cell phone from my purse and scrolled through my address book. Shuman had two phones, like a lot of people did, and always carried both of them with him. One was his personal phone; the other was for anything that involved LAPD business.
I tried his personal phone first. His voicemail picked up, so I left a message asking him to call me. Then I tried his cop phone.
“Hello?” A man answered, but I knew it wasn’t Shuman.
Okay, that was weird.
“I’m calling for Detective Shuman,” I said.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The guy sounded grumpy and out of sorts. I wondered for a moment if it was Detective Madison, then realized it wasn’t his voice.
“Is Shuman there?” I asked.
“No, he’s not,” the man said. “I can help you. What do you need?”
No way was I telling some strange guy the reason I was trying to contact Shuman. Since Madison had already decided I was a suspect in Lacy Hobbs’s murder, I figured it wouldn’t do me any good to say anything, even though my name had no doubt appeared on the caller ID screen.
“I’ll call back later,” I said, and hung up.
That whole exchange seemed odd and it made me worry that something had happened to Shuman—he was a cop, after all.
I went back to my desk and Googled his name, LAPD, murder, and cop shooting but didn’t find anything indicating he might have been hurt in the line of duty.
Whew!
Okay, so maybe he was sick and staying off work for a while.
I didn’t like the sound of that either, but it was better than thinking he was dead. Still, if that were the situation, Shuman or maybe his girlfriend, Amanda, would check his messages and get back to me.
Of course, maybe Shuman was simply on vacation. Homicide detectives were allowed to take vacation, weren’t they?
Or maybe he was on his honeymoon.
I wish I’d stop thinking about that.
The whole thing was bugging me so much that there was nothing I could do but find out for sure just what was up with Shuman.
I didn’t have Amanda’s cell phone number or her number at the District Attorney’s office, but I checked the Internet and placed calls to several of the numbers listed there and finally reached someone who knew her and gave me yet another number.
“Hi, I’m calling for Amanda Payton,” I said.
“Who’s calling, please?” the woman asked. She sounded professional and competent, like maybe she was a receptionist or admin assistant.
“Haley Randolph,” I replied.
“And what is your business with Ms. Payton?” she asked.
“It’s a personal call,” I told her, and envisioned her typing all my info into a message to send to Amanda.
“You’re a friend of Ms. Payton?” she asked.
Jeez, trying to find out if I was seriously a murder suspect was turning into a lot of work.
“Yes, we’re friends,” I said.
“At what number can you be reached?”
I gave her my cell phone number.
“Will Amanda get that message today?” I asked.
“Someone will get back with you,” she said, and hung up.
Someone will get back with me? What was that supposed to mean?
Was Amanda off work keeping vigil because Shuman was sick or injured, or lying in a hospital bed somewhere, hanging on to life by a thin, unraveling thread?
The scene played out in my mind. Amanda at his bedside. Shuman in a medically induced, drugged haze, plastic tubes and blood-stained bandages everywhere, machines beeping and blinking, nurses and doctors rushing around, and all Shuman can do is gaze up at Amanda, trying to communicate the deep abiding love he feels for her. And Amanda, choking back tears, trying to stay strong while his life slipped away.
Or maybe I saw that on the Lifetime Movie Network last week.
I’ve got to get a grip on myself.
Anyway, chances were that Shuman was fine. He had the flu, or he was on vacation, and more than likely the receptionist at the D.A.’s office told everyone who called that someone would get back to them, and I would hear from either Shuman or Amanda—or maybe both—before lunch.
Unless they were on their honeymoon.
Crap.
Not that I wasn’t happy for them, because I was. But still.
Since I was driving myself crazy with my own thoughts, I decided there was nothing to do but get down to work.
I hate it when that happens.
I opened the portfolio Vanessa had quite literally thrown at me yesterday. When I’d glanced over it I’d seen that it involved some sort of get-together, but that was about it. Nothing much to worry about, party-wise. But now, thanks to Lacy Hobbs getting murdered, I’d have to find out from someone just what was up with the cake that had been ordered.